


Keep it Steady

by patchesjames



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchesjames/pseuds/patchesjames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had moved from the table into the gap between Stiles’ legs where they still hung down from the counter. His hand was brushing the bruise on Stiles’ cheek, his son unconsciously leaning into the touch and Derek murmuring something that sounded like, “He’ll never do it again.” Stiles dropped his head to Derek’s shoulder and the boy’s hand went from Stiles’ cheek to the back of his neck, resting lightly. </p><p>Up until now John had hoped this had just been some sort of whiskey induced hallucination, but now-now he wasn’t so sure.</p><p>Or the one in which Derek is even more protective than Papa Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep it Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Horrible, unrealistic, self-indulgent fic.

“You sure have your mouth guard?”

“Yes.”

“And all your pads? I know you said the knee pads looked dumb, but you brought them?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Does your cheek still hurt?” He reached out and brushed his hand over his son’s left cheek, it still looked a bit more swollen than the other. A bruised bone the second doctor had said.

“Only when someone’s fingers are probing it,” Stiles pulled his head slowly out of his dad’s grip. “Dad, I’m fine, I swear. I have three cups on, elbow pads, a chin guard, and rec-specs and I don’t even wear glasses. I’m fine.”

“Ok, alright,” John reached out and clapped his son on the shoulders. “Good luck.”

Stiles grinned before looking over his father’s shoulder at the kid-man-hiding behind him. Derek had stepped forward as if he wanted to say something.

 

Two hours (and three double shots of whiskey) after Stiles had shown up after being jumped by the rival lacrosse team, there was a knock at the door. Honestly, John’s hand went automatically for his right side. But his gun wasn’t there; he was sitting at his kitchen table. His son had been missing and another boy had died on the field, excuse him for being a bit jumpy. He eyed his watch-2:17 a.m.-as he made his way towards the door and opened it for-Derek Hale.

“Sir,” Derek said shortly, nodding at the sheriff. His entire body reeked of discomfort, but he continued, “May I come in?”

“Derek?” If John was being honest with himself, the figure before him was a bit blurry. “Derek Hale?”

“WHAT!” Sounded from upstairs along with a startling crash. The side table, again, John presumed. Stiles flew down the steps, thundering as he went. “What are you doing here?”

“Stiles-“

“No.”

John made his way back to the kitchen, he didn’t really care at this point if they followed or not. They did, exchanging glares and eyebrow conversation as they went.

Derek sat at the chair across from John, but Stiles hopped up onto the counter instead, his arms crossed over his chest, the red on his lip and cheek a glaring contrast to the kitchen’s warm yellow light.

“Sir,” Derek started. “I’d like to say I’m sorry.”

“Derek-“Stiles stopped with a plaintive look from the man he was addressing.  


“Can one of you explain what he’s talking about?” John asked, moving his hand to gesture in between the two.

“Well,” Derek stopped and rubbed his hands over the dark stubble littering his face. “I guess I should start with the fact that I have been dating your son for the last three months.”

Stiles put his head in his hands and let out a high pitched groan.

“And,” Derek tentatively warbled on. “I know he can take care of himself,” He rolled his eyes as John snorted. He had a feeling someone had given Derek this speech quite a few times and that someone was currently attempting to push his eyeballs into his hands. “But, I should have been there tonight. After the game. None of this should have happened.”

“Derek-“Stiles tried again, softly this time. 

“None of it. And I promise that I’ll go to every game, practice, scrimmage. I will tail him around town. Nothing like this will ever happen again. No one will hurt him ever again.”

Derek stopped, breathing heavily, his eyes solely focused on his clasped hands that were resting on the table. John checked on Stiles but he still had his head in his hands and showed no signs of moving. His head swung towards Derek again.

“Good.” He breathed out, waiting a beat. “Well, okay then.”

“That’s it?!” Stiles finally snapped his head up.

John sighed, pushed his chair back, and stood up. “I have far too much to process tonight for me to process this as well.” He walked over to Stiles and shook him gently by the arm. “But you and I, young man, are going to have a long, long discussion tomorrow, hear me?”

Stiles gulped, but also nodded.

“Good. Now I am going to go to bed. Stiles, I can be assured that you will show Mr. Hale, out?”

Stiles nodded again, more fervently this time. 

John turned and extending his hand towards Derek. “Hale?”

Derek immediately shot up and shook his hand firmly. “Good night, sir.” He paused as if wanting to blurt out a thank you, but seemed to think better of it. John trudged tiredly towards the stairs, only stopping to spare one last glance towards the kitchen.

Derek had moved from the table into the gap between Stiles’ legs where they still hung down from the counter. His hand was brushing the bruise on Stiles’ cheek, his son unconsciously leaning into the touch and Derek murmuring something that sounded like, “He’ll never do it again.” Stiles dropped his head to Derek’s shoulder and the boy’s hand went from Stiles’ cheek to the back of his neck, resting lightly. 

Up until now John had hoped this had just been some sort of whiskey induced hallucination, but now-now he wasn’t so sure.

 

 

Derek finally stepped forward and muttered to Stiles, “And if your foot hurts, tell Coach to take you out. You know that psycho won’t do it on his own.”

John also thought he heard Derek whisper something about being able to “smell it anyway” but he chose to add that to his large memory file of “not wanting to know” and leave it there.

Stiles rolled his eyes fondly and pushed Derek towards his dad. “I’ll be fine, go, both of you!”

Derek glared back until Stiles huffed and said, “If my foot hurts, I will willingly sit the bench, depriving my team and the fine people of Beacon Hills of my astounding athletic abilities. Now please, go sit.”

 

 

“Keys, keys,” John muttered to himself as he tucked his wallet into his back pocket. He had spent the last half hour debating whether he wanted to go meet some of the deputies for a beer or if he wanted to stay home and watch the Mets game. The boys had gone out to a party which had inspired him to leave the house as well. Just as he had found his keys and was about to open the front door, it swung open from the other side.

“Dad?” Stiles asked, he had his arm thrown around Derek’s neck who seemed to be holding the younger boy up. John stepped aside as Stiles limped into the house, holding one foot in the air, and hopping towards the couch; Derek supporting all of his weight.

“What happened?” John asked as Derek settled Stiles on the couch, grabbing a pillow and gently easing it under his foot to elevate it. “Aren’t you supposed to come limping home after you leave the party?”

Derek sighed, slowly tugging Stiles’ sneaker off of a very swollen ankle. “Someone fell over a crack in the sidewalk before we were even five blocks away.”

Because he had been fed so many farfetched lies over the past year, he could tell this was the absolute truth; he could also tell by the slight blush staining his son’s cheeks. He could usually count on Derek to shoot it to him straight while Stiles opted for the “grander”-looser-version of the truth.

“Dad, it was a giant crack! Who in the city can we sue? Do you still have the mayor’s number? Is that part of your jurisdiction to fix sidewalk cracks?”

John opted to turn to Derek, who had finally unearthed Stiles’ foot and was making his way towards the kitchen. “Why did you even walk anyway?”

Another sigh as Derek shoveled ice from the freezer into a Ziploc bag. “Someone thought it was such a nice night that walking three miles would go by in no time.”

Derek quickly made his way over to the couch and lowered the bag onto Stiles’ red, bulging foot.

Stiles shrugged. “I wanted to look at the stars, sue me.”

Derek shook his head, but fondly, a small smile adorning his lips. “I thought we were suing the mayor? 

 

 

It took a few tugs on Derek’s arm to get the boy to follow John to his usual seat in the stands. They took a seat next to Melissa McCall, with Scott’s girlfriend and the Martin girl behind them.

“Melissa, I don’t know if you’ve officially met Derek, have you?”

Derek shot him a nervous look before shaking the hand Melissa extended his way.

“Not formally, but I feel as if I must know you from the way Stiles talks about you.”

Derek’s ears reddened. “Nice to meet you. Uh, Scott talks about you a lot too.”

“Well I should hope so; I mean I only gave birth to him.”

It was an easy joke but Derek cracked a small smile all the same.

The companionable silence that followed was broken by a bellowing shout. “GO JACKSON!”

Lydia Martin had taken it upon herself to stand on top of the bleachers and brandish a large sign that read, “Jackson’s # 1”. Clever. When they turned to look at her she shot Derek an expectant look that somehow managed also to be superior, confident, and judgmental at the same time.

Derek let out, a now familiar, world weary sigh, before standing so that he could take off his ever present leather jacket. John barked out a surprised laugh because underneath the jacket was Stiles’ practice jersey, a little snug around Derek’s chest, but the number twenty-four clearly blazoned across his front resting atop his long sleeved black shirt. He gave Lydia a smile before resuming his seat. 

She scoffed and turned her attention back to the field. “YEAH JACKSON!”

 

 

“This has to be the hottest summer on record.”

“Nope,” John said from where he was refilling the ice trays and grabbing some fruit pops. One cherry, one orange, and one grape. “That was 1996.”

“Well, the hottest summer since we got rid of the homemade slip and slide.” Stiles replied, nodding thanks as his father handed him the cherry ice pop. Derek didn’t even open his eyes as John handed him the grape; just shoved Stiles’ leg, which was sprawled over his, off.

“Get off me,” He whined. Sweat stained the tank top on Derek’s chest and was dripping off of his forehead. He pushed Stiles upright and scooted over so that John could join them on the couch.

“Stiles, I asked you to take the air conditioners out of the garage three weeks ago,” John didn’t want to admit it, but his back had been easier and easier to throw out every year. “If you want to be cool, go get it.”

“Daaad,” Stiles complained his eyes half open. Derek stood abruptly and walked out the front door. 

“What?” Stiles mumbled, sitting fully upright and looking far more alert.

“See,” John gestured with his orange pop. “Your whining is so annoying that even your boyfriend doesn’t want to hang out with you.”

Stiles grinned at that one, reaching over to steal a lick of his dad’s ice pop. He was offering his cherry one to John, when the door flew open. Derek followed after, lowering his foot, and an arm full of air conditioner. He easily carried it over to the window. Stiles and John watched wordlessly as he lifted the window, pulled out the screen, pushed the air conditioner in, and plugged it in. He wiped sweat from his brow before going back outside.

The two Stilinski men exchanged a look, but before they knew it Derek was walking in with their second, ancient air conditioner and climbing the stairs to Stiles’ bedroom. They heard low clanging and a few muffled curses, while they let the cool air now blasting through the room wash over them.

When Derek came back downstairs, both men were half asleep, eyes closed, sprawled on the couch, the baseball game on the TV forgotten. Derek gracelessly flopped on top of Stiles and closed his eyes as well. 

The last thing John heard before he drifted off to sleep was, “Knew we kept you around for a reason.”

“Hear, hear,” He agreed.

 

Now John never claimed to be a medical professional, but he’d seen things over the years and had a post pubescent son, he knew a thing or two about the human body. And Derek Hale definitely possessed more veins in his face and throat than any person he had ever seen before.

“C’mon, c’mon,” The boy was muttering to himself, his hands clenched together and his knees jiggling up and down. His eyes were trained on the gangly kid running up the field towards the goal. Right before Stiles could pass the next defender and he was being tackled from behind and careening forward in a graceless pile of limbs. Again. And there were those five-at least- veins popping out of his forehead. “Aw, c’mon,” He yelled at the field.

“It’s like they're gunning for him,” Melissa whispered to John, too low for Derek to hear. John was pretty sure he was too busy plotting out ways to injure every player on the West Haven High lacrosse team without being charged for manslaughter.

John nodded back at Melissa’s words. Apparently word had gotten out about Stiles during the off season. Instead of being the mouthy kid who rode the bench, he was the quick sprinter who had trained hard all summer. And the opposing team’s coach, much to Derek and John’s dismay, had decided to attach his biggest and fastest player to do anything he could to stop Stiles from getting the ball. And apparently that meant steamrolling the one hundred pound lighter boy into the ground as hard and often as he could.

“Let’s go, Stiles!” Derek shouted over Lydia’s claps and whoops.

 

It was the second week of summer and all of the usual suspects in the fridge-chocolate milk, turkey, bacon, soda-had been removed to make room for eggs and something that smelled horrible and the label declared to be Muscle Milk. John shook his head and closed the fridge for good measure. He hoped that Stiles’ “getting into shape for lacrosse next season” phase would pass through quickly.  


He was about to yell up the stairs and ask where the hell his pancake batter was, but then he checked the time. 8 a.m. on a Thursday, during the summer. Stiles would be dead to the world for another four hours at the very least. Eggs it was.

John was flipping through his newspaper, happily crunching on his eggs and toast when the door creaked open. 

Stiles dragged his body into the room, panting, before dropping into the chair across from his dad. His face was the brightest red John had ever seen and his wet shirt stuck tightly to his chest. His elbows were covered with mud and grass.

He plucked the glass of orange juice out of his father’s hand and downed it in one long gulp.

“Hey!” John protested. 

Stiles smacked his lips, let out an “ah!”, and set the glass down. He leveled his father with a deathly stare. “I hate Derek Hale.”

John laughed and went to pour himself another glass of juice. Apparently the Derek Hale workout plan to up Stiles’ stamina had gone into full effect. He couldn’t resist the angry look on his son’s face as his chest heaved up and down with panted breaths.

“But I thought you loooooved him?”

Stiles whipped his sweaty shirt up over his head and chucked it at his Dad’s head. “I hate you too.”

Two weeks later and Stiles showed up with an egg sized lump on his head and a bruise blossoming on his side. John had sent him to bed with an ice pack and strict instructions not to fall asleep in case of concussion.

When John answered the loud knock on the door a half hour later, he found a scowling Derek Hale, who was clutching a pharmacy shopping bag full of painkillers and ice cream. And if John wasn’t mistaken a DVD case with Ghostbusters inside. “I hate Jackson Whittemore,” was all he said before trudging upstairs to Stiles’ bedroom.

 

John winced and clenched his eyes shut when he saw Stiles go down again. Derek let out a growl next to him, an actual grow before standing angrily to his feet. “C’mon ref!” He shouted. “That’s gotta’ be holding. Make a call!” He sat back down when the ref shot him a clear look that said I will kick you out of here. John laughed as he heard a voice that sounded a lot like Stiles’ supply, “Kick him out of where? This public field?”

John clapped a hand on Derek’s back. “This isn’t the NFL, son, I’m pretty sure they only call fouls when one of the kids starts seriously bleeding.”

Derek exhaled in response, the ticks in his head back, and his jaw clenched tightly.

When Melissa started listing quietly in John’s ear all the symptoms of a cardiac arrest patient and how Derek was exhibiting at least seven, John pulled a few bills out of his wallet.

“Hey, Derek, how about you go get me a pretzel, huh?”

“What?” Derek asked, not taking his eyes off of Stiles as he attempted to dodge around his personal guard dog and get open. 

“Derek. Pretzel?”

“Oh!” Derek nodded, taking the money from John and making his way down the bleachers. John laughed as Derek walked slowly towards the meal mobile at the end of the field, only stopping to glare openly at the ref.

There were only forty seconds left in the game and John was pretty sure one of his boys was going to end up leaving the field in an ambulance.

But just then Jackson tossed Stiles the ball and he sprinted forward until he caught it. Without looking back he made his way towards the goal. Scott and Isaac tailed him the rest of the way, blocking any player that attempted to stop Stiles. And then Stiles was passed the last defender, he lifted his stick, and launched the ball forward.

It passed under the goalie’s arm and sailed into the back of the net.

“YES!” John and Melissa jumped to their feet as the fans started cheering.

John couldn’t hear Stiles but he could see his mouth open in a wide whoop, a grin spanning across his entire face as he pumped a fist into the air. Isaac and Jackson carried Stiles on their shoulder towards the stands, passed the scoreboard which read 7-6. 

John saw Derek striding back to the stands, smug smile on his face and pretzel in hand. Before he could reach them Stiles was sprinting up the bleachers towards his dad. 

“Dad,” He panted out. “Please make Derek stay home for the next game.”

Fin.


End file.
